


I Went to Canada and All I Got Was This Lousy T-shirt

by Seascribe



Category: due South
Genre: Denial, Hand Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Ray Kowalski did not actually learn anything in Canada, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 21:52:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3871033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seascribe/pseuds/Seascribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray learned his lesson with Fraser, and he's not going to make that kind of mistake again. No way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Went to Canada and All I Got Was This Lousy T-shirt

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Scribe for the look-through and for helping out with the ending.

Ray tries to ignore it, he really does. Because he'd been there and done that with Fraser, got the t-shirt. And the mukluks and the toque and the bonus frostbite. It's not an experience that he's eager to repeat. But Vecchio's always doing something with his goddamn hands, waving them around while he's talking, licking the pad of his index finger to flip through files, fiddling with that stupid paddleball he keeps at their desk. And Ray can't. Stop. Looking. 

Vecchio's hunting and pecking on the keyboard, typing up a report, and there's no way that should be doing it for Ray, but Vecchio's stupid long fingers are graceful, even when he doesn't know exactly what he's doing with them, and Ray doesn't know what it is about Vecchio's wrists sticking out from the cuffs of his shirt, but whatever it is, he likes it. A lot. Goddamnit. He shoves his chair back from the desk and stomps off to the bathroom before he does something stupid. 

After that, Ray figures denial is a lost cause. He doesn't jerk off in the men's room, but it's a close thing. By the time he comes back out to the bullpen, Vecchio's finished his report and is filing his paperwork backlog. Ray heaves a surreptitious sigh of relief.

And then the call comes in about an armed robbery down on Vine. Ray's not distracted by Vecchio's fingers on the wheel of the Riv, or his hands holding his gun steady on the perp, or his quick, competent movements as he cuffs the guy and shoves him into the back of the blue-and-white, hand coming up to keep the perp's head from banging into the roof of the car. Because Ray is a professional. 

That gets him back to the 2-7 and through interrogation, but then then Vecchio's unloading his sidearm and giving it a once-over while he fills out his shots-fired report, and that is it, Ray is _done_. He scribbles out something that kind of looks like it could be a report and tosses it on the desk in front of Vecchio. 

"Here you go," he says. "I'm out."

Vecchio opens his mouth to say something indignant, but Ray's already bolted.

He's not planning to jerk off thinking about Vecchio's hands. No way. He just needs to get some space, unwind a little. Ray has every intention of heating up some leftovers, cracking open a beer, watching the Hawks put on their best imitation of an actual hockey game, and not thinking about Vecchio at all until he has to go back to work with the guy in the morning. 

What happens is that he's sprawled on the couch, hard in his jeans, with his brain playing him a technicolour rerun of every single time he's stared just a little too long at Vecchio flipping through files or punching in the number on the fax machine or splaying his hands out on the interrogation table as he leans down to give a perp his best mobster glare. And if that kind of stuff is going to get Ray's motor running this hot, he might as well give in and let his imagination go where it wants to. 

Ray thinks about Vecchio hooking those long fingers in the waistband of Ray's jeans, popping the button open, sliding his hands inside. He doesn't think about kissing Vecchio, or putting his own hands down Vecchio's pants, or saying anything, because this is just about getting off. It's not about wanting to fuck Vecchio, or having feelings for him, because Ray doesn't. Being into Vecchio's stupid pretty hands is one thing, but that other stuff, that's on the far side of a line that Ray isn't going to cross. No way. Not again.

That lasts until Ray wraps his hand around his dick and thinks about how Vecchio would do it, probably slow and torturous, teasing. Ray looks down at himself, thinking about what Vecchio's hands would look like on him, imagines Vecchio's darker skin and the rings on his fingers, the flex of muscles in his forearm. Vecchio's probably a talker, Ray thinks, and lets go of his last little bit of resolve not to cross that line. He imagines Vecchio tucking his face into Ray's neck as he jerks him off, keeping up a steady stream of meaningless commentary and obscenities. 

Ray's breathing hard now, and he speeds up a little. Vecchio'd probably be pretty smug by now, if he were really doing this to Ray. That's okay though, because Ray could give back as good as he got, work his hands inside Vecchio's expensive suit and do some teasing of his own, kiss the smirk off of Vecchio's face. Ray drags his thumb over the head of his dick and twists a little on the downstroke, rocking his hips up into his fist. He thinks about the smell of Vecchio's cologne and the way Vecchio's jaw would be rough against his skin, and he thinks about Vecchio sinking his fingers into Ray's hair, pulling his head back so he could kiss Ray while he jerks him off, those long fingers figuring out exactly what Ray likes, just hard and fast enough. 

And Vecchio'd be breathing hard too, maybe losing his rhythm a little, because Ray would be figuring out what Vecchio likes right back, and--Christ, he's so close. He slows down, because he's pretty sure that's what Vecchio would do, just to drive Ray crazy, making him wait when he's so close it almost hurts. Ray groans, trying to draw it out, but it's too much, his whole body is on overload, and he speeds back up, frantic, and comes, thinking about Vecchio's hand on his dick and Vecchio's mouth on his and the noises Vecchio would make when he came. 

He lets himself have a couple minutes to enjoy thinking about those things, and not about how he's got twelve hours before he's back to sharing a desk and a car and an interrogation room with Vecchio, and how much more that is gonna _suck_ now. That is gonna suck so, so bad. 

But Ray can do this. Maybe he crossed a line he hadn't wanted to, but it's not too late, this is just between him and his dick, it doesn't actually change anything. Ray's gonna go to work, and things are gonna be like they always are, except maybe he spends a little more time at the bar afterwards and picks up some new material for his porno collection. This isn't gonna be like before. He can learn from his mistakes. 

(Somewhere in Florida, he has a feeling Stella just started laughing without knowing why) 


End file.
